


ugly things in the darkness (worse things in store)

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Double Anal Penetration, Forced Ejaculation, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Mick to the Rescue, Other, Restraints, Tentacle Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-05-30 02:17:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15086852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: Ray desperately wishes he could go back in time to warn himself away from the literal monster hiding in the temple.





	ugly things in the darkness (worse things in store)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryontop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryontop/gifts).



After three years on the Waverider, Ray should have known better than to go wandering off on his own. Should have known better than to sneak away and check out the temple while the Captain and the others were busy joining the locals in some kind of feast. But the technology protecting the gate was _fascinating_ , a challenge to figure out and get past, and in his defense, he couldn't really have known that all the talk about the "Great Protector of the Realm" wasn't merely some fantastical religious mumbo-jumbo.

The mission had been a success, the people were nice enough... Ray figured trespassing would at worst earn him a disapproving look from the locals and a stern talking-to from Sara once they got back to the Waverider.

In hindsight, it was foolish and naive of him, and Ray desperately wishes he could go back in time to warn himself away from the literal monster hiding in the temple. 

The thought doesn't go unanswered. _Don't be rude, human,_ the creature admonishes. The words echo soundlessly in his mind. The telepathic communication would trigger Ray's scientific curiosity if he wasn't too busy panicking about the tentacles – fucking _tentacles_ , like something right out of a bad 1970s sci-fi movie – relentlessly sliding around him, slipping under his clothes and tearing through the fabric like it was made of paper.

They're soft and firm and smooth, cool to the touch, almost like a snake's skin, a deep olive green so dark that it's nearly black. And they're everywhere at once. It's hard to keep track, because there are just too many of them. One wrapped around his feet the second the creature attacked, effectively stopping him from fleeing, and the one that keeps his arms locked behind his back feels like a vice, so tight that his fingers are starting to tingle from the tension and the pressure. Ray's not a small guy – he might not be able to compete with Mick's bulky muscles and raw strength, but he's physically fought his way out of some tricky situations, even when he didn't have the A.T.O.M. suit at hand, and yet the tentacles holding him down don't even budge half an inch when he tries to push against their hold.

And then there are the others. 

Five, six, ten of them, impossible to keep track of because they're constantly on the move, pulling off clothing and prodding and poking, sliding over his skin like a dozen vicious snakes. The thought combined with the sensation makes Ray shudder. He's never been particularly ophidiophobic, but as a flexible tentacle slides into the waistband of his briefs with sinuous motions and pulls them off, the last barrier of fabric shielding his body gone now, panic rises in his chest like black smoke, making it harder and harder to breathe.

He starts struggling again, uselessly twisting his arms, but all he accomplishes is a sharp pain shooting through his shoulders and friction burns on his wrists. 

_Stop resisting_ , the voice in his head says. _You're only going to hurt yourself._

A hysterical bout of laughter bubbles up his throat, humorless and entirely inappropriate, but Ray can't hold it off. 

"Don't take this the wrong way, but your concern for my well-being is really weird, all things considered," he points out once he's calmed down enough to speak. It might be unnecessary since the creature is clearly able to read his thoughts, but clinging to that last bit of normalcy is all he can do.

 _I have no intention of harming you,_ comes the response, pacifying and matter-of-fact, and Ray is almost – almost – reassured until the creature adds, _I always treat my sacrificial offerings well._

Yeah, no, he refuses to be _sacrificed_ to some creepy alien tentacle god while Mick drinks himself into a coma, Sara flirts with the outer space version of Xena: Warrior Princess, and Zari finishes off the buffet. That's not going happen.

But before he can start another attempt to free himself, a thick, muscular tentacle creeps up his spine and firmly wraps itself around his neck. It's not tight enough to cut off his airflow, but the steady pressure against his windpipe is more than just discomfort – it's a warning and a threat, a reminder of the creature's superior strength and how thoroughly fucked Ray is.

Something about that thought seems to cause amusement. Ray can feel it through the telepathic bond like weird vibrations of laughter. He's temporarily taken aback, so fascinated by this kind of sharing of emotion on a physical level that he doesn't question what exactly was so funny until he feels another tentacle between his legs. It brushes against his flaccid cock, past his balls towards his ass.

He still doesn't get it. Not really. Not until there's a sudden slickness against his hole, until he feels the tentacle pushing against the tight ring of muscle back there. It's more instinct than a conscious act of rebellion when he clenches. 

_You're just making it harder on yourself, human,_ the creature says. That amusement from earlier is still echoing in the tone, but it doesn't make the words any less chilling. _I told you I wasn't planning on hurting you, but that doesn't mean I won't if you keep fighting._

"Go to hell," Ray tells it, and if his voice sounds choked up and not quite steady, well, there's no one here who'll know.

He expects retaliation, but the tentacle around his throat doesn't tighten and the one behind him just keeps rubbing against his asshole until he finds himself relaxing despite himself.

He feels more than hears the creature's low hum of approval as it pushes the slick length of the tentacle into him, inch by inch. He's been fucked before, with both cocks and toys at various points in his life, but this is different. The tentacle is so much cooler than human skin and so much more _alive_ than a toy, wriggly and pulsating inside of him. It feels strange and _wrong_ in a way Ray can't pinpoint. He pushes his hips forward to get away a bit, but before he can, he feels a touch against his groin. 

The weight around his throat makes it impossible to look down, but Ray doesn't need to see to know that it's another tentacle curling itself around the base of his cock. The smooth texture moves against the most sensitive parts of Ray's skin with just the right kind of pressure. There's nothing tentative about it, nothing experimental, like it's done this a million times before, and Ray involuntarily feels himself starting to harden under the ministrations. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, but he can't fend off the rush of arousal as the tentacle continues to slide around his cock and along its length, teasing the head with maddening nudges.

"Please don't," Ray begs pitifully, but even as he says the words, his hips stutter towards the tantalizing touch. 

He's so distracted that he almost forgets about the tentacle in his ass until the nimble tip suddenly brushes against his prostate. White-hot pleasure explodes behind his closed eyes and he tries to muffle a moan by biting down hard on his lip. 

Useless. It's not like the creature won't be able to sense his arousal or read his thoughts, not like it doesn't know exactly how it's affecting Ray. In a way, it was easier before, when all he felt was fear and discomfort.

He senses a tingle of curiosity from the creature, but it's hard to focus with the tentacle at his cock and the one in his ass working in tandem to get him off. It's maddening, the constant slide of cool alien skin against his erection, the almost inhuman, steady rhythm with which the slick appendage pumps into him. In and out, in and out, incessant and powerful. Ray loses some time there, drifting in a haze of numb, humiliating pleasure he doesn't want but cannot fight. Absent-mindedly, he notices other tentacles around him, caressing his skin, flicking against his nipples, probing his balls. 

It all turns into a relentless sensory overload until, suddenly, it stops. 

The tentacles don't retreat, but they cease moving. It takes a few seconds – or maybe it's minutes; it's hard to tell anymore – for Ray's mind to reboot and notice what's going on. Or what _isn't_ going on, rather. Something about the sudden impasse makes dread rise up in him. It doesn't feel like the creature's through with him... It feels like anticipation.

He wonders if he's going to die now. If that's what the creature does, what it meant when it mentioned sacrificial offerings. He braces himself for pain, for choking, for getting stabbed through the heart.

And still, when a second tentacle starts brushing against his hole next to the other, he jumps. It teases his opening that already feels stretched beyond endurance, spreading slick liquid back and forth before starting to push.

"Don't!" Panicked, he shakes his head as well as he can with his neck held firmly in place. "It's not going to fit."

 _You can take it,_ the creature tells him, calm and sure, and it feels more like an order than reassurance.

Ray keeps shaking his head, even when the second tentacle breaches him. He gasps and doesn't bother to hold back the groan escaping his mouth. It's too much – too big and too wide and too much friction, discomfort edging towards pain that becomes something else when the other tentacles start moving again. Against his cock, his prostrate, his nipples, his throat, his balls, every inch of his skin. Over and over and over again as the two tentacles fuck him mercilessly, barely letting him breathe between the harsh, stabbing thrusts. 

It's awful and overwhelming and painful and it feels mind-numbingly, mortifyingly good.

 _You're taking it so well._ If he had any energy left to be embarrassed, Ray would flush at the creature's praise. _It's like you were made for this._

It gets harder and harder to breathe, the creature's grip around Ray's neck becoming tighter as he feels his climax building up. When it finally hits him, it feels like a punch, almost painful in its intensity. He tries to scream but can't make a sound, feels himself coming, feels a tentacle closing around the head of his cock like it wants to suck him dry, and then the world turns to black.

For a while, he's drifting. Not quite unconscious, not quite awake. Dreaming, maybe. Maybe it all was just a horrible dream. He needs to stop watching that terrible sci-fi stuff Nate likes so much. And porn. No more porn. All it does is make his mind go to weird places.

He drifts off again.

When he comes to, something touches his arm and he sits up screaming. It only registers afterwards that it's warm and callused, not cool and smooth.

"Haircut, what the hell?"

He blinks up at Mick, who's looking at him with unfamiliar concern. An echo of panic grips Ray by the throat again. He swallows and takes stock. He's sitting naked on the temple's cool stone floor, the torn remains of his clothes scattered around him. 

It's just him and Mick now, nothing else. 

He could almost believe that he imagined it all, but there are dark red bruises around his wrists, and from the way Mick is frowning at his neck, Ray wouldn't be surprised if his throat looks even worse.

"I'm fine," he says with a raw voice, trying to convince himself as much as Mick.

Mick's frown deepens. "Sure you are." 

His eyes keep flickering over Ray's body, like he's cataloguing damage. It makes Ray want to cover himself, but there's nothing he could use and he's too worn out to really bother. All he wants to do is lie down and sleep for a day or five and forget any of this ever happened.

His eyes must have dropped shut for a moment because the next thing he knows, Mick's lifting him up. He doesn't go for a fireman's carry, even though it would probably be easier. Instead, he loops Ray's arms around his shoulders and, with a care that seems uncharacteristic for Mick, nestles Ray into his arms like some damsel in distress. Ray would protest, but it's nice and comforting and the familiar smell of Mick, gasoline and smoke and grease, envelops him when he buries his face in the other man's jacket.

"It's okay. I've got ya," Mick says, and Ray believes him.

The End.


End file.
